“Everything is fine,” I mutter, tapping my finger against my full lips. The truth of the matter is, detention is not all that bad. I get to stare at him, which probably isn’t healthy, but it’s nice, and when you’re in my position, you take every little good thing that comes your way. I get to do my homework. Ryan is always late to pick me up anyway, so it’s not like I’d be getting more free time if I didn’t have detention. Oh, and let’s not forget—it’s not like I’m in a hurry to get home.
“Well, time to pack a bag,” Mr. James says, leaning forward, his palms flat against his desk. “And. Leave.”
Reluctantly, I gather my things. I see his eyes scanning me. I see him contemplating, too. He wants to ask me if I have a ride. I do. But I would ditch Ryan somehow if he’d ask. Only Mr. James doesn’t ask. He turns around and leaves.
I stand corrected.
I don’t have a ride—not for another forty minutes. Ryan texted me saying that he worked at the auto shop ’til late and is just now on his way, so I have time to burn.
At first, I loiter by the fountain at the entrance, but then I spot Mr. James walking to the nearest convenience store by foot. Since I’m an idiot with no self-control, I do the only thing I absolutely shouldn’t be doing—take the camera out of my backpack and follow him.
It’s not such a big operation to pull off, when you think about it. West Point is bang in the middle of a vast, broad, tree-lined street that looks like it’s been copied and pasted from a movie—the complete opposite of where I live. Suburbia-galore and packed with preppy, middle-aged women in obnoxiously big sunglasses, shopping with their daughters. In other words, I manage to follow him without being noticed. I stand behind a tree and ogle him as he enters the store. Through the glass, I see him plucking out a can of Cherry Coke and walking to the register.
Click, click, click.
He points at two things behind the guy who rings him up, and the latter throws a pack of cigarettes and condoms into his bag.
Click, click.
Slowly, I lower my camera and squint. My heart is galloping, slamming into my ribcage, and now it’s not just because I am borderline stalking the man who teaches me. Condoms? I mean, logically, I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s gorgeous. What exactly am I expecting him to do? Turn down women his own age for his student? Nonetheless, it feels like betrayal.
He shouldn’t be with anyone else.
Hell, I know I’m talking crazy—thinking crazy, to be exact—but he just shouldn’t.
It’s a dangerous game, but apparently, I’m still playing it, because when he leaves the store with his bag of sex and the cigarette after, I follow him still. He doesn’t walk back to the school grounds. He goes in the other direction, toward a small café. Seeing him like this, in broad daylight, outside of school, gives me a new perspective on Pierce James. I see how people look at him—how women look at him—and realize that whatever draws me to him captures other women, too. He is so tall, so commanding—you can’t not look. And I really should stop looking. He’s made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me, and even if he did, what the heck am I saying? I need to focus on getting out of here, not on screwing my way into another problem.
Click. Click, click.
My camera captures him shaking a guy’s hand. I don’t recognize the other man, but why would I? A crazy thought hits me. Maybe Pierce is gay. Maybe he bought the condoms so he can go to town with this dude. Unlikely. He wouldn’t look at me the way he does if that were true. They meet by the café, and the man hands him a manila envelope, which Pierce takes. I’m dying to know what’s in there, but I settle for taking a few more pictures. They talk some more, then five minutes later, he is walking back toward West Point. I wait a few minutes before I follow back to sit at the stairs and wait for Ryan.
And spend the rest of my waiting time going over the new images I have of Mr. James.
I’m in trouble.
Deep trouble.
Only difference is this time, I didn’t get dragged into other people’s woes.
I created it. All. By. Myself.
Ducky Woods is the best private investigator in town. You better believe it, because he’s helped take down some of the biggest gambling gangsters in Las Vegas. His services aren’t cheap. I usually don’t like to dip into the trust fund from my grandparents.
With the exception of my house, I live a pretty modest lifestyle. I bought it because when Gwen died, I wanted a place further away from the city so I could effectively hide from the world. Paying my own way, even on a teacher’s salary, is a pride thing for me, but I don’t give a shit. He is worth every penny, and he is going to help me come up with a bulletproof case against Ryan Anderson. Something that will throw him in prison for life without parole, preferably.
Ducky has already started coming up with evidence.
Auto shop, my ass. Ryan has been dealing everything from prescription meds to heroin for the last five years of his life. It’s a full-time job, but he’s recently found the time to expand and start dealing weapons, too. Nothing too big. Dirty Harry-style unregistered guns. I’m not sure where he is getting them, but I sure hope that he is not keeping them at his house. Remington deserves better. A lot better.
That place is not safe.
Which brings me to why I decided to go for it in full force. For a second there, I had a little guilt trip over the fact that I was going to take away the only person in her life who actually cared. Only to realize that in the grand scheme of things, if the only person who loves you is being physically and mentally abusive to you and sells drugs and guns for a living, then you’re better off without them.
Because this asshole is not going to do her any good. For one thing, he’s already responsible for one death. He wouldn’t be so lucky to get away with killing two of them. Not under my watch, anyway.
Tonight, I dragged some random I met at a bar to my bed and fucked her senseless. It was a calculated move on my end, and I very rarely feel the urge to have sex with strangers. Sometimes you have so many things to take care of in your life that sex is just not worth the trouble and you’d rather rub one off instead of making the effort. But ever since the school year started and Remington Stringer bulldozed into my life with her pouty lips, wide, green eyes, and long, brown hair, I need an outlet. Today was the worst, because when her detention was over, she didn’t want to leave. And neither did I.
After Mikaela left, it dawned on me that I could walk over to the door, lock it, amble in her direction, flatten her against her desk, and eat her until she screamed my name. And she would let me. And hell, she would love every single second of it, maybe more than I would. The thought was so real, so vivid, and most dangerously—so possible—I had to act fast. So I did. I slept with someone else.